


Stains (like blood on your teeth)

by Typhoid_and_Swans



Series: Scary Monsters (And Super Creeps) [1]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Bucky Barnes making friends with historical figures, Bucky Barnes throughtout history, But it's there, Fluff and Angst, Gore, M/M, Making up my own vampire logic and lore, Vampire Bucky Barnes, Violence, very little fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-14
Updated: 2016-07-14
Packaged: 2018-07-24 00:04:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7485144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Typhoid_and_Swans/pseuds/Typhoid_and_Swans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A brief summary of Bucky Barnes throughout history.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stains (like blood on your teeth)

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, this is a product of my love for vampires and vicious Bucky. Hopefully it'll be the first in a series of stories about vampire Bucky Barnes and his adventures through life (or unlife, as it were), love, and Avengers shenanigans. No beta, edited by myself, so all mistakes are mine. Please tell me if something is historically inaccurate or if a tag should be added, I'll be glad to fix it.
> 
> Title from Nine Inch Nails - March of the Pigs.

1508, March

Iacov jerked awake, gasping in smoke-heavy air and gagging at the stench of burning flesh. The flickering heat of fire danced on all sides. The horse he had been leading was dead as his feet, jugular and soft belly ripped open, innards glistening in the dirt. His own clothes were drenched in blood, most of which he could swear was his own.

There were no screams in the air.

Soot fell like snow into his hair as he struggled to his feet. The world around him was dark, the black sky broken by orange flames. The only sound he could hear was the crackle of fire and his own heartbeat hammering away in his ears.

But the night was filled with scents. The sour smell of boiling blood, the smell of burnt hair, the overwhelming aroma of death that seemed to muffle every other sense.

Iacov’s vision tunneled as he stumbled through the wreckage, but he pushed through the call to mindless. There were bodies littering the ground, some whole, some in pieces. The town baker was lying just outside his shop, the blood he was lying in still fresh and leaking from his ravaged insides. The blacksmith was missing a leg. The barmaid who gave him sweets when he was young hung from a spike that had been thrust into the top of the doorway.

His knees fell out from under him when he found his mother’s body. She was mostly intact, dark hair damp with her own blood, neck ripped out and eyes glassy. Her dress was ripped, her thighs wet. Iacov sobbed into her wet hair and buried her as far from the flames as he could.  
…

He succumbed to whatever urge was inside him days later and came back to himself in an alley, lying on cobblestone next to a pale, shriveled corpse. He understood, then, what he had become, and understood who he had to thank.  
…

1510, March

He cornered Mihnea cel Rău - oldest son of Vlad III Dracul, Voivode of Wallachia, sire of the bastard Iacov - in a Catholic cathedral in Sibiu. He exacted his revenge in front of the eyes of God, let God witness the monster his father made him as he fed the usurped prince his own heart. He left the cathedral as the sun began to rise and smiled at arriving priest with bloody teeth, covered in viscera.

He let the Craiovești faction take credit for his father’s murder and his existence fade.  
…

1536, May

Of all of the wives of Henry VIII, Iacov’s favorite was Anne Boleyn. She was a spirited young woman, older than he when he was turned. She had the fiery, independent temperament that had once been valued in female rulers. He took it upon himself to teach her of Wu Zetian, the Chinese empress of long passed.

He taught her many other things as well, from his travels in the east and west alike. She was enamored with stories about the Indians who had never seen a man with blue eyes before, and stories of men in the north who wore animal pelts and raised animals in the snow. He taught her piano, a skill he picked up in France, and they explored the virtues of the Greeks together. 

What he could not teach her, however, was how to navigate the rough waters surrounding Henry VIII of House Tudor. He watched young Elizabeth while Anne struggled with her husband’s frustrations, most of which stemmed from her inability to produce a son. Her latest - and as it happened, her last - miscarriage was a boy of about 15 weeks, born too early because of his father’s recklessness. He privately named the boy Gavril and hoped, for his sake, that there was a god waiting for him.

When he told Anne of his thoughts, she cried and clutched his hand with both of her’s.

Anne’s brother was born before her, arrested before her, put on trial before her, killed before her. Iacov covered Elizabeth’s small face as the blade was brought down. No child should see her mother die, he thought, and suddenly, savagely, thought how fitting it would be for Elizabeth to see her father murdered, maybe do the murdering. He cast the thought away and led Elizabeth to the palace.  
…

1547, February

William Peyto held no special place in his heart, but as Iacov ripped into Henry’s dead body, he thought of the words the man spoke against his king and chuckled as he fulfilled the prophecy.  
…

1793, October

Iacov was beginning to think he should stay away from royalty. 

France was a mess. Iacov (known as Jacques now, French perfect with an accent tainted with distinctly Eastern European vowels) didn’t want to kill anyone, there was already enough death, but Robespierre was a demon if Iacov had ever seen one - and he did, every day in the mirror. Not even his grandfather, Vlad Dracul, had been feared as Robespierre was, especially by his own people. 

He had been in the crowd when Louis XVI was executed, watched his head roll and watched the crowd cry in out equal parts outrage and relief. He watched Robespierre, the man’s awful, smug smirk. He was glad Marie wasn’t there to see her husband die. When he caught Robespierre’s eye, he licked his lips and was gone in the next blink.

Now, Marie was pacing her room, face tear-streaked but no longer crying. At Iacov’s suggestion, she bathed. He assured her that water wasn’t dangerous as long as it was boiled before use. She called him into her chambers after she was cleaned.

“You can help me, dear friend,” she said. Iacov thought she was much prettier like this, hair falling across her shoulders and face bare of powder. 

“I’m unsure of what you expect me to do,” he replied, though he knew exactly what she meant. As much as he appreciated her forward thinking, nothing he could make her would save her from her fate. 

She stood and took his hand in hers. “Please, Jacques, make me like you. Save my life.” She gave him a pleading look. “It does not have to end this way.”

Iacov sighed. She had found out what he was not long after the king was executed. He had been careless, feeding on one of Robespierre’s men in the palace. She found him with his teeth in the man’s neck, eyes feral and mouth bloody. He was forced to explain, less she call the guards. Now she sought to use his nature for her gain.

He supposed she deserved to die with hope.

It was said that her hair turned white overnight, but in reality, Marie Antoinette was the first and last person he ever turned. When she was escorted to the guillotine, she met his eye and smiled. He watched as her head fell into the basket, smile forever on her face.  
…

1897, May

“I must thank you, James,” said Bram. He clasped Iacov’s shoulder. “You have been a valuable asset.”

Iacov smiled wanly. “What good is my insight if there is no one to use it?” he replied.

Bram threw his head back as he laughed, accent thick and warbling. “Good man,” he chortled.  
…

1918, July

Iacov stood over the shallow graves of the Romanov family. Nine bodies were in the biggest grave, two feet underground and poorly concealed. Two children were buried about fifteen meters away, maimed so badly he could only tell that one of them was Alexei. He thought the other was Anastasia, but there was no way to tell; she was dismembered and her head caved in. She could’ve been Maria, based on the size, but the other small body in the bigger grave was just as mangled.

There was nothing he could do now. They were in pieces, or half dissolved by sulfuric acid. He put wildflowers in their graves and buried them properly, saying a prayer in Russian that Alexandra had taught him. 

He left Russia three days later for America.  
…

1935, August

The kid was on his ass in an alley, bleeding from the nose and grinning at the men surrounding him. A trash can lid was laying beside him, a dent the shape of a fist on one side.

Iacov was there in an instant, snarling at the three men - they were so much bigger than this blond kid - and throwing a pulled punch as an incentive to get the hell away. 

“I had them on the ropes,” said the blond kid. Iacov was enamored.  
…

1938, October

“Buck?”

Iacov pushed the hair away from Steve’s forehead. He was sweaty and pale with the first illness of the season. “Yes, Stevie.”

Steve squinted at him, blurry-eyed and forever worried about everyone but himself. “You look kind of pale. Are you okay?”

The laugh that punched out of Iacov was weak but genuine. “You’re one to talk.” But Steve was right on the nose, as he always was. Iacov hadn’t fed in almost two weeks, focused only on working to make enough money to get Steve medicine and pulling Steve out of fights and preparing for Steve’s annual bouts of sickness. Steve wiggled to sit up. “No, Stevie-”

“You have to take care of yourself too, Bucky.” He gave him a hard look. “Promise you’ll get some sleep tonight?”

Iacov watched him for a long second before smiling. “I promise, punk.” He looked out the window at the sun falling behind the horizon of Brooklyn brownstones and started tucking the blankets tight around Steve. “How about we get a head start on that promise, huh?” He climbed in next to Steve, who grumbled half-hearted but curled back into Iacov anyway.

He would sneak out later to find some poor drunk bastard to feed on, but for now, he would hold onto the only good thing he had in this life.  
…

1942, April

Iacov got into the habit of surreptitiously feeding Steve his blood as a supplement to his ailing health. It was never much and he never drank from Steve, so there was no danger of Steve turning, but the healing properties in his blood that were used to revive the human during the process of turning still affected Steve. There was no major change, but his bouts of illness were shorter and he stopped getting so close to death every winter, which was a weight off of Iacov’s mind.

He didn’t like keeping another secret from Steve, but the added weight to the ball of guilt that had been building since his own turning was worth keeping Steve alive. And if he used his powers to scare away the bullies who harassed Steve at every turn, well, no one but he and God had to know, and there was nothing he could really do to send his soul further into Hell than it already was.  
…

1943, July

Steve enlisted in the military. 

Iacov followed him.  
…

1945, November

Falling off of that damn train was the worst thing to ever happen to Iacov. The look on Steve’s face as he fell, arm outstretched and face fallen in anguish, the fact that he couldn’t disperse into shadows and reappear at Steve’s side like he longed to do. 

He dissolved into shadow as he hit the ravine floor to avoid injury and slithered his way up the mountain in time to watch Steve steel himself, then burst through the door to find the other Commandos had already captured Zola. He watched Steve struggle to tell their team about his fall and ached to reach out, tell Steve that he was all right, as alive as he could be, that his fall was not his fault.

But he couldn’t, not if he wanted to keep himself secret, so he ripped himself away when Steve got back to base, let Steve find solace in Peggy’s words, and destroyed a Hydra base or six in his rage. When he came back three days later, he discovered Steve had crashed a plane armed with bombs intended for New York into the Arctic Ocean.

He found Johann Schmidt crawling onto the shore of Newfoundland, shivering and barely alive, and rent his limbs from his body, peeled the mutated flesh from his bones, made him feel what Iacov was feeling before ending his life.

And then Iacov disappeared.


End file.
